CHRISTIAN SAND. 
395 
XVI. 
Yiewless—soundless—stalks the spectre 
Thro’ the city chill and pale, 
Which like bride, this morn, had deck’d her 
For the advent of that sail. 
Oft by Bergen women, mourning, 
Shall the dismal tale be told, 
Of that lost ship home returning, 
With “The Black Death” in her hold! 
I would gladly dwell on the pleasures of my second 
visit to Christiansand, which has a charm of its own, 
independent of its interest as the spot from whence we 
really “ start for home.” But though strange lands, 
and unknown or indifferent people, are legitimate sub¬ 
ject for travellers’ tales, our friends and their pleasant 
homes are not; so I shall keep all I have to say of 
gratitude to our excellent and hospitable Consul, Mr. 
Mork, and of admiration for his charming wife, until I 
can tell you viva voce how much I wish that you also 
knew them. 
And now, though fairly off from Norway, and on 
our homeward way, it was a tedious business (what 
with fogs, calms, and headwinds) working towards 
Copenhagen. We rounded the Scaw in a thick mist, saw 
